


Amelioration

by baylop



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baylop/pseuds/baylop
Summary: Kraglin is left with a reassembled arrow and not much else. The Guardians manage to help.





	Amelioration

**Author's Note:**

> So I didn’t expect to leave GOTG 2 with so many feelings for a tertiary character. This is the result. The Kraglin and Yondu dynamic in this is ambiguous, so if Kraglin/Yondu isn’t your “cup of soup”, as it were, I’d like to think platonic Kraglin + Yondu works just as well here.

 

From Kraglin’s view out the _Quadrant_ porthole, only a few ships remain. Stakar’s is among them, lighting the last and brightest of the Colors as the rest have already settled in shimmering clumps — a lingering memorialization of Yondu’s wake. His eyes follow the swirls that have collected into an arrowhead kissing the stars. He squints out beyond. Then further still, until his eyes blur envisioning the bodies of his friends abandoned to the cosmos. Lives and legacies unhonored.

_Pick ‘em up on your way, Cap’n. They’ll be real glad to see you again. I —_

Twelve ships now. Nine. Seven. He thumbs the outline of the yaka arrow where it’s zipped in the inner pocket over his heart. It’s enough of a distraction that he almost doesn’t hear the hesitant footfalls that creep up beside him.

“You could go and join one of ‘em,” Peter says as he looks straight ahead, voice measured like he’s rehearsed the words beforehand. “Rocket told me about what happened on the _Eclector_. I’d vouch for you. Word of a depowered demi-celestial should count for something, right?”

Kraglin huffs, hastily scrubbing the snot and saltwater from his face with the back of a sleeve. “Ravager mutiny ain’t punishable by death no more? News to me.”

Peter spares him a careful, sideways glance. “Any faction’d be crazy not to take you in. And you didn’t mutiny.”

“Didn’t stop it, Pete. Let Cap’n get taken. Stood by while the full _kala_ squadron got booted through the airlock for fightin’ it. Tullk. Oblo. Meera. All of ‘em, gone. And I just...watched.”

“The _kala_ squadron,” Peter muses with a tight-lipped smile. “Yondu used to call them the babysitter squad. I’ll miss _them_. But you think you’d be alive right now if you’d spoken up?”

“Maybe Cap’n would be.”

Peter turns to look at him — _really_ look at him — and Kraglin stares right back, eyes red-rimmed and unapologetic.

“There’s no way — how could you even — ” Peter swallows thickly. Raises a hand towards Kraglin’s slumped shoulder, hovers, and lowers it in reconsideration. Looks down, away, and finally back again to meet his gaze, features a little bolder and certainly more raw around the edges. “Fine,” Peter says. “ _Fine_. New rule: we’re dropping the hypotheticals. The point is, dude, I’d put in a good word for you. Stakar, Aleta, whoever you want to crew with. I’ll wear ‘em down if I have to. Then you can get back to stealing crap.”

If it were coming from anyone other than Peter, Kraglin would take that as an insinuation — a polite, nice-but-not-really — suggestion to _leave_ , instead of the tentative offering to regain Ravager familiarity it is.

He’s no Guardian. Certainly not a _hero_ , or anything of a similar fashion.

But Kraglin shakes his head. “And do what, Pete? Mosey along with people who treated Cap’n like shit for almost longer’n you’ve been alive? Right up until he — ” Kraglin’s face scrunches to sound out the word, but Peter seems just as pained to hear it as Kraglin is to say it. “Naw, fuck that. Not a chance.”

He turns back to the porthole in time to see the five ships that remain. Kraglin knows them all. Knows the individuals within who Yondu had considered _family_ , even when they’d turned their backs to him, no longer regarded as one of the Seven of their pointed flame.

_They ain’t family to me._

“So you’ll stay with us,” Peter says, halfway between a question and a confirmation. Barest brush of hope peeking through calcified layers of grief.

Stakar’s vessel flashes out into the sea of stars.

It’s enough of an answer as any.

 

*

 

He dreams of their faces. Mottled skin, burst capillaries, lifeless eyes. Gaping mouths and boiling tongues — saliva trails evaporating in a vacuum. The bodies manifest and twist at odd angles, edematous and unyielding as they spin in the void of deep space. He senses the ineludible pain that stretches into nothingness, but he doesn’t feel it, safe behind a shuttered airlock while all he’s ever known floats away. But the worst are the whispers that strangle him, picking at the seams of his skin until he’s left with shredded ribbons of flesh that spell out his existence.

 

_Why ya standing there, lad?_

_Please...please help me!_

_That coward don’t care._

_Pain’s too much. M’roastin’._

_Make it stop._

_Look at me, boy! Look what you’ve done!_

 

When his eyes snap open, a dark head looms above him.

“I could help you sleep.”

Mantis sits at the edge of his berth, knees folded to her chest and toes curling in his sweat-drenched sheets.

Running a clammy hand over his face, Kraglin tries to get his breathing steady. “How long you been sittin’ there?”

“I could make it better,” she sidesteps. “Take away the dreams.”

Sitting up, his mind stews in confusion until he remembers her empathic powers. “No need for that. M’fine.”

“You feel longing. Loathing. And so many regrets.”

“Don’t,” he growls, scrabbling at his bedsheets and searching for where she’s made contact. “Ain’t you supposed to ask permission before you do that? S’rude.”

Her head bows in attrition. “I am still learning the extent of my abilities. Though I have noticed that sometimes, other’s feelings...can become overflowing to me. Even without touching them.”

Mantis’ cabin is a full corridor away from his own, at least on pre-job night cycles like these when they’re afforded the spaciousness of the _Quadrant_ ’s quarterdeck. Kraglin takes in her tear-streaked cheeks, shiny under the pulsing light of her antennae; it’s like looking into a mirror, only a lot prettier. “I woke you,” he realizes. “Uh...m’sorry.”

“I do not mind. You have not been the first to do so on this ship.” Her sigh is a broken thing as she peers up at him. “And sleep does not hold me so easily anymore.”

“‘Cause of what Ego did?”

“What I did. And what I did not,” she amends, voice wavering. “Ego’s children...kept me from being lonely. I made them brave if they were frightened. I took away their homesickness if they cried. I watched as Ego tried to fill them with eternity, and took them into his caverns when they could not hold the light within themselves — when they disappointed him. And I did nothing to stop it. If I had tried... _something_...if I had not been afraid, then maybe...everything that happened would have been different.”

“It’s a fool’s errand t’deal in _maybes_ ,” Kraglin says, bitterness lashing at every word. Rummaging under his pillow, he retrieves the arrow cocooned there. Twirls it once just to feel the weight of it.  “And it don’t make the guilt stick to you no less for it. I — ”

_I should know. And take my own dang advice._

“...I don’t reckon I’ll be sleepin’ for the rest of the night,” is what he settles for instead. “You can’t, uh, make yourself sleep? With your powers?”

She gives him a scrap of a smile. “They do not work like that.”

“Oh.”  

She doesn’t offer to help him again, but he’s silently glad for it — his dreams are his own to square away with. He supposes hers are, too. The minutes pass in a hazy silence, undercut only by the activation of the oxy circulators and the occasional squeak-snore from Groot across the hall. Then it just sort of happens; wordlessly, he scoots to recline against the hull — legs dangling over the berth and Yondu’s arrow balanced in his lap — and she joins him, her hands folded and head tipped back to look out his cabin’s viewport. Not close enough to touch, but where Kraglin can feel her warmth and grounding presence all the same.

They watch the star systems blur together until Gamora bangs pans in the galley and Peter blasts some gaudy Terran song through the the speakers as a way of a morning wake up call.

 

*

 

“You’re done already?”

“What, I look like an amatuer or somethin’?” Rocket wonders, tossing Kraglin the fin. “Could’ve done it without the stupid data specs too, if you woulda let me.”

Kraglin turns the red metal under his fingers and prods at the ridges. Shakes his head. “Couldn’t have you freewheelin’ this when I needed it exact. So...thanks for it. Means a lot.”

Rocket gives him an odd look, bushy tail swishing against the fusion mines and plasma cartridges that litter his workbench in haphazard piles. His eyes narrow. “Remind me: did you tell any of the others about this little commission of mine?”

The pause in conversation is too long not to be suspect.

“Didn’t...think I had to,” Kraglin manages. “It’s my decision.”  

“ _Decision_ ,” Rocket repeats. His whiskers bristle in wry amusement. “D’ast, you’re serious about this. Got a surge doc lined up, then? ‘Cause I only make and install  _hardware_. I don’t do brains.”

Kraglin glowers at him, hands ringing protectively around the intricate metalwork. “What makes you figure I wanna go and — ”

“Save it, slim,” Rocket says with a dismissive wave, hopping off the bench and sauntering towards him. “You’re aimin’ for either surgical implantation or full-on obsessive shrine material with what I built. Since you seem the type to wanna publically broadcast your misery, it’s gotta be the former. So — who gets the pleasure of bein’ paid to slice your head open?”

A ruddy flush starts to work its way up Kraglin’s neck. “I ain’t...committed to a doc yet. Just got a list of potentials — didn’t think you’d complete the fin so fast, n’all.”

“So. Where’s. The. List?”

Fully red-faced now and weighing the possibility of slinking away with a modicum of privacy left, Kraglin slowly procures his porto pad — which Rocket immediately snatches and starts poking away at with a priggish grin. “Hey, I got a passcode,” Kraglin warns. “You can’t just — ”

“Please,” Rocket scoffs, scrolling through charts and diagrams at a breakneck pace. “Now where is your...bingo. Okay, let’s see. This broad’s too ethical, no way she’ll bite. This sap died in the Kyln thanks to Ronan or one of his goons — probably Nebula. And this one...dude, have you seen this guy’s client survival rate? What kind of stupid are you?” He continues swiping until he seems to finally settle on something. “Now, _this_ is the kind of promising loser you wanna go for: Dr. Bel Relio on Krylor. Banned from the Nova Medical Order for ‘illicit surgical practices’...and he’s done the procedure before.” He pulls up a classified record. “Once, on a Centaurian. Guy lived. Gives him a 100% success rate at least, and beggars like you can’t be choosers. There’s an upfront fee of 80,000 units. Eh. Bit steep, but I’m sure we can whittle that price down once the doc’s missin’ a few fing — uh, toes. Yeah, toes.” Decision made, Rocket flicks off the porto pad and pokes Kraglin in the stomach with it. “So, when am I sneakin’ your beanpole ass over to Krylor?”

Kraglin gapes at him. “You — and me — you want to — ”

“Hey don’t sweat it, I was just kiddin’ about the toes part. We need the guy whole for you to have a fair shot of comin’ outta there alive when we go.”

“Like I was sayin’ — _we_? As in, the two of us, together?”

“Yeah, _we_ take the _Milano_ for a joyride to Krylor, get this Relio guy to neuro wire the fin, and make it back to the _Quadrant_ before anyone can change your mind about gettin’ a _freakin’ permanent, metal mohawk_ screwed on that has no guarantee of workin’ or even survival. Yeah, what could go wrong? Plan’s foolproof.”

“I...I don’t understand.”

“ _Oi_. Guess I’ll speak slower then, so clean out your grubby ears: we take the _Milano_ — ”

“Nah, I get — I mean — why would you do that for me? You already made me the fin, and you didn’t have to. M’grateful. But now you wanna help me get it fixed in — why? You didn’t even intend for me to get _this_ ,” Kraglin says, removing Yondu’s repaired arrow from inside his jumpsuit. “Cap’n didn’t even want…” — and this is the root of it, the ugliest thought of all which chews angry whorls in the meat between his ribs — “I mean,” he clarifies, voice smaller but more guarded, “I ain’t even sure Cap’n would’ve wanted me to.”

“But you do.”

“What?”

“You wanna use the arrow, and you’re willing to get your skull split open to do it, even with the risks. ‘Cause based on what Yondu told me when I was installing his prototype, this ain’t a common procedure. For someone like you, it’s damn near experimental — your Xandarian noggin’s not hardwired for this, and it’s probably gonna hurt like nothin’ you’ve ever felt before. Not to mention you could die if your body rejects the alloy base. Or you could figure out the arrow don’t work for you and _then_ die. But even knowin’ all that, you’re set on this.”

“Yes.”

 _Abso-_ fucking _-lutely_.  

“Well then, you wanna know _my_ why,” Rocket says with a shrug, looking off to somewhere past Kraglin’s left ear and toying with the porto pad between his forepaws. “Fair enough. When we busted out of that _Eclector_ cell, the blue idiot killed everybody there, ‘cept _you_. Casually blew up his own ship, and trusted _you_ to get us outta there and support us on Ego. Only you. And you did. So I figure all that counts for _somethin’_. And yeah, I gave Quill the fixed arrow...thought he’d want a memento or somethin’ mushy like that to remember his dad by. But he went and gave it to you. Based on what I’ve seen — and what I _saw_ — I think he had the right idea. Color me surprised.” Rocket turns his gaze to him again, corners of his mouth upturned with the promise of mayhem. “So I’m gonna ask you again; when are we stealin’ Quill’s _Milano_ for one helluva brain bender?”

 

*

 

Hints of iodoform and torched bone flecks nestle in his nose. He is floating. He is falling. Hands tug over him, calloused and furry and wooden, pulling at old leather and slick skin. There are voices high and low, yelling and cursing and cautious. He doesn’t hear the particulars; the words sail to him muffled through a fog of spicemilk. Something sour folds in his gut and bursts past his lips. It cakes onto his tongue in endless swells until the hands return, gentler this time. He slips down into a yawning chasm, sticky with balmy heat and overripe kruna. The darkness there smiles jagged silver as it holds him, unbreakable and unresting.

 

 _Always, y’hear_? _I ain’t leavin’ you._  

 

Kraglin blinks. The first thing that hits is the thirst, quickly followed by a searing pain that licks from behind his eyeballs down to the scruff of his neck, making everything too tight and too heavy and _too much_. “Water,” he rasps, as a swirl of irascible green flutters above him.

Gamora’s press of ice slivers to his cracked lips is a cruelty of the highest order.

“More,” he pleads, throat clamping on the meager rivulets the melted ice creates.

Gamora shakes her head, resolute in both posture and tone. “Your stomach won’t hold it, not so soon after...what you did. Blame your Xandarian biology. The IV drip is doing what it should. And before you ask, you’re already at the max dosage for med infusion, so if you’re hurting, I can’t help you with that.”

It’s a lot of words for Kraglin to filter from the pain pressing in on him, but he gets the gist of it: “I ain’t dead, then?”

“I’m no angel,” Gamora says, a bit more sardonically than he can fully process in his current state. “Just the person _lucky enough_ to be assigned bedside duty both times you decided to wake up. At least you’re coherent this time around.” She exits his line of sight. “I’ll be back with some fun supplies — I assume I don’t have to tell you _not_ to move.”  

There’s something Gamora’s said that Kraglin wants to follow up on, but it expends too much energy to parse through the words. Instead, his eyes dart around, taking in the familiar bulk of a _Quadrant_ cabin, though not his usual room. The berth’s bigger — a real bed, he supposes, since he can crawl his fingers to both edges of the mattress without hitting a wall. He brushes past stray leaves as he goes. Possibly a flower. Trying to tilt his head for a better view, the immediate sensation of a large awl diving between his brain hemispheres makes him retch.

_Baby steps, then. And breathe._

Gingerly, he reaches towards the top of his head, unsure of what he’ll find. He supposes he should be thankful to still be amongst the living, but the gratitude doesn’t outweigh his need to _know_. The tips of his fingers graze crusted skin and scabs from where his head was held in place. Damp bandages. Higher up and —

Gamora’s fingers close around his own, rougher than he’d prefer. “Stop that,” she tuts. “You’re not supposed to touch it directly for another five days, at least.”

He tries to hide his sanguineness. Fails. “Did it take?”

“Don’t you _dare_ sound so satisfied. Based on what Rocket told me, you’ll be fortunate not to go through necrosis.”

“He told you...and everybody else?”

Gamora snorts, but there’s not a whiff of humor to it. “A metal fin embedded into your skull would’ve been hard to miss. Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

If his eyes weren’t hurting so badly he’d roll them. “Nah. Didn’t want nobody to try and talk me outta it, is all.”

“Well that was a stupid thing to do. You almost — Peter was...and Mantis — look, you worried people, okay? I don’t know what you’ve been accustomed to as a Ravager, but we don’t hold secrets like that around here.”

Kraglin lets out a hollow laugh, but immediately regrets it as the effort makes his head swim. It takes a while for the diplopia to clear, and when it does, the rare intentional haughtiness to his words has left. “All y’all do is hold secrets ‘round each other. Just ain’t so good at keeping ‘em.”  

Gamora stays silent for a long time. It lets Kraglin ruminate over her earlier words — she and the others had kept vigil, watched him as a Krylorian drug cocktail and anesthetic aftereffects kept him bundled under a cloak of whimsical caliginosity.

_She had said...what was it? I woke up...again, coherent this time. This time. So that would mean —_

“Your former captain. Udonta,” Gamora finally says, cutting into his thoughts. “You really...respected...him.”

Kraglin sizes her up slowly, too fatigued for true irritation. “S’not the word you were gonna say.”

"I don’t believe it’s my place to presume anything beyond that,” she says simply. “You just...talked about him. Said some things. The first time you were awake, I mean.”

Kraglin doesn’t need to see his own face to picture the redness blooming there. He feels the flush well enough, and it makes his hands itch with the need for something familiar to hold. “Where is it?”

He doesn’t elaborate, but Gamora’s eyes avert his all the same.

“It’s gone,” she says.

“ _Gone_?”

“Peter took it. He and most of the others are down on Birkeel now. He didn’t want you to — stop, _stop_!” she hisses, hands pressing at his chest to keep him from rising off the bed, heady lurch of pain be damned six ways to Skrullos. A bit more force and Gamora could easily push through his ribcage. And Kraglin — for one miserable, manic moment as too many awful scenarios rush through him — considers letting her, before ultimately slumping against the sheets in defeat.

“Pete didn’t — he can’t — it ain’t right. Wasn’t _his_ no more.”

He’s never felt more like a child.  

“Peter is holding on to it _for now_ ,” Gamora elucidates after a few shaky seconds, hands still splayed over his chest as if she half expects him to risk such recklessness again. “And it will remain that way. Until he — until all of us are convinced that _thing_ in your head doesn’t trigger a hypersensitivity reaction. If you get — _when_ you get med clearance, you’ll get the arrow back. Then you can practice whistling as much as you’d like.”

Relief seizes him. Pettiness, too. “Didn’t know you Guardians was medical professionals,” he mutters, though he’s the most relaxed he’s been since waking. _Coherently waking_ , he corrects, feeling the warmth return to his cheeks.

_The hell I say while she was listenin’?_

Gamora’s brow arches artfully. “We can certainly leave you with a doctor, if you’d prefer.”

It’s an empty threat, but Kraglin does her a solid and doesn’t call her bluff. “S’okay. I’ll be a good patient here.”

Retracting her hands, Gamora treats him to a nearly toothy smile. “That’s better. Now, on to other matters. You have two options: I can apply the orugi ointment around your fin now — ”

“Synth-graft?! That stuff burns like a H’ylthri barb!”

“ — or you can wait for Drax to come in and do it. His shift here starts in ten minutes. Up to you.”

To her credit, Gamora doesn’t laugh at him when he pulls faces during her gloved application of orugi to his scalp. But Kraglin’s fairly sure she takes a certain amount of vindication as he sibilates, reminding him that everything that’s happening is _because he chose it_.

Really, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

*

 

Typically, Rajak is the type of busy, bustling planet Kraglin likes, with its roughhousing taverns, seedy trade markets, and culinary confections that arise only from a population with its fair share of transplants and outlaws. Just not when he’s only three weeks removed from post-operative, Guardian-mandated _Quadrant_ confinement. And, of course, saddled with Groot duty — and _only_ Groot duty — during a food run in a port town.

The little guy is marginally less little nowadays — thanks to a steady diet of sapworms and daily treatments under a pho-light, at Rocket’s insistence — but still jaunts around like he is, until he decides the view is better by sitting atop a shoulder or hooking under an elbow.  

“Stay in my eyeline,” Kraglin calls when Groot slides down his travel cloak and ambles ahead, weaving through an indifferent myriad of legs, hooves, and tentacles. “M’serious.”

And he is, mostly. But Groot, for all of his wide-eyed innocence, has learned that he can get away with toddling off — at least when Kraglin’s watching him — so long as he pulls what Peter calls a “Hansel and Gretel”, leaving a trail of glittery slipseeds that are easy enough for Kraglin to track and follow at his own speed.

Unfortunately, it’s slower than he’d like, with his body still very much recuperating and racked with weakness. The nausea comes and goes, along with the occasional urge to peel his scalp apart, if only to gain a respite from the constant itchiness. But most of his lethargy is impenitently self-inflicted from spending each night cycle — since he’d been “cleared” by every member of the crew, including Groot — trying to get Yondu’s arrow to hover more than a few microbules off the ground.

So blearily he trudges along, acquiescing to the considerable coordination it takes just to dodge the array of bodies he weeds through in pursuit of Groot. When he does catch up, Groot is poking at meats of questionable origin and freshness at a deli stand, oblivious to the Easik vendor kicking up a fuss at his hygienic infringement.

Before Kraglin can fully placate the man, Groot is off again, this time following a little Xeronian girl and her marmutt to the produce tables two roads over. Skimming past a pair of lanky Sneepers and a group of shoving Aakon, he presses on. He only makes it a few steps further before his head starts to pound. The pain rankles his senses from head to toe. Certainly bearable, but altogether unpleasant.

_Haven’t felt like this since Pete was keepin’ the —_

Automatically, his hands dig under his cloak. Blaster, a handful of grimy Jakkelian coins, the sword at his back, the dagger hidden in his right armguard.

And an empty arrow holster.

He wants to scream. Take a well-deserved punch to the face, at least. Possibly two for just how disgraceful _getting pickpocketed_ is, considering his pedigree.

Swallowing the sweep of panic and self-castigation, he scans the crowds. Nothing. The pain at his head percolates his typically peerless spotting, honed from offsetting traps, countless stakeouts, and identifying undercover Nova officers like a full-time job. Rubbing his temples, he closes his eyes, and it’s then that he _feels_ what he’s after, a thin line of red stretching taut with the distance. He follows the hook of it through a slew of fruit and vegetable stalls, pace far above what Mantis or Gamora would approve of if they saw him.  

The Sneepers come into view, and Kraglin sees red. Feels it too. But they’re already sprawled on the dirt as a Centaurian fruit vendor stands over them, clicking out a string of obscenities in their general direction. A natural crest sits proudly above her tall, zaffre frame. And Yondu’s arrow dangles in her hand.

“I am Groot.”

Kraglin keeps his eyes trained on the woman, who kicks the ground and sends a cloud of dust into Sneepers’ eyes for good measure before they stand and flee. “Little buddy, you missed out on watchin’ me be a total nitwit with the most important thing I own. Let’s hope this part goes a little better. C’mon.”  

But as he and Groot walk up to the woman already resuming her place behind the fruit stall, the ice in her eyes tells him it’s not to be so.

“Thanks for sendin’ those guys runnin’,” he begins. At this distance, he can see that her crest, while glorious in its genuine splendor, is frayed in places and ripped in others, with a sizable chunk gone at the nape of her neck. Wide scars map the parts of skin he can see around her robes.

The woman regards them both. “What business is it of yours?”

“They took somethin’ from me,” he says, chin jutting towards the arrow in her hand.

“I am Groot,” Groot adds.

Apparently neither is a suitable answer, because the woman’s face darkens and she backs away a bule. But not in fear. “What dead _Akuun_ did you loot this from?”

Kraglin hastily taps his translator implant, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t know what you mean ma’am, but that weapon’s mine.” Back straightening, he tries to project an appearance of valiancy. “So you best give it back before I get fully serious.”

“Your false _tahlei_ will not help you,” she says, eying his fin and still-healing scalp. “Each piece of forged yaka tells a story. This weapon belonged to a faithless Centaurian — one who is now dead. Yet you say it is yours? You lie.”

“It was given to me.”

“Yaka is not given. It is earned from the _hakta_.”

“It _was_ given,” he insists, voice rising and attempted pleasantries forgotten. “By the owner’s son. S’mine now. So give it, or you’ll be sorry!”

“Will I?” the woman challenges, folding the arrow under her arm and stepping further out of reach. “You have no claim to that which is _not yours_.”

With only the fruit stand between them and neighboring vendors and patrons making a concerted effort _not to get involved_ , Kraglin shifts his weight, feeling the slide of the blaster at his hip. It’s not his preferred option, but in his current condition...

“I am Groot.” A quick tug at the hem of his cloak makes him risk a glance downwards. Groot raises an arm and spreads his fingers, making his hand ripple like a wave in the wind.  

_Shoot. Might as well try..._

He whistles, and is almost as surprised as the woman is when the arrow returns cleanly to the palm of his hand. Mawkish delight washes over him, terrifying in its intensity.

The woman angrily rubs at her singed arm. “What trick is this? Yaka tools are spirit-bound to one. You should not be able to call it.”

Heart still pounding, Kraglin points to his head with his free hand. “I got the fin that makes it work, don’t I? Not authentic-like, of course, but — ”

“It is most unnatural,” she snaps in agreement, teeth bared. “A _tahlei_ grants the capacity, but each tool of yaka is shaped by the one who gives it life and sets to master it. You are not of us, yet you take the yaka weapon of a dead _Akuun_ and it follows your pitiful Xandarian attempts at guiding.”

Kraglin is nearly tempted to take the incredibly backhanded compliment and leave, but something compels him to keep spewing words. “Ma’am, really, it don’t work all that well for me, usually. Honestly I’m tryin’, but when I use the arrow I ain’t even scratched the surface of what my Cap’n could do with it.”

“Pink fool. The arrow should not stir for you _at all_ , not with its owner dead. The spirit of the metal — that which makes it soar — dies alongside the one who forms it into being. Your connection to the _Akuun_ would need to be that of — ”

The woman visibly shivers. Gives him a once over like she’s actually seeing him for the first time.  

Under her redoubled scrutiny Kraglin glares, hand tightening around the arrow until his knuckles go bone white. “What’s that look for?”

“Anthos above,” the woman murmurs. “In all my years I’ve never...you are...”

Groot latches onto her fruit stand and pulls up with his vines. Takes a kruna from a bushel and splits it down the middle, juices dribbling at his feet. The woman doesn’t berate him for defiling her produce, only watches — as Kraglin does — as Groot holds the halves apart before bringing them back together again. “I _am_ Groot.”

The woman’s eyes soften like a setting sun. “Yes...you are right,” she says to Groot, barely audible above the masses. “It certainly is.” The woman looks up at Kraglin and nods. “Off with you, then. Do as you will.”

Kraglin doesn’t really understand it. But when Groot leaps down from the stall with his arms full of kruna and wanders back into the crowds, spilling the fruit as he goes, Kraglin pays the woman — who squeezes his hand as he transfers the coins — and goes to follow him.

 

*

 

The punishment for impaling Drax in the neck with a misdirected arrow is mercifully swift. Three swings and Kraglin is down on his ass, head lolling against the interior of the _Quadrant_ ’s cargo bay and blood filling his mouth.

“You are most untalented with this weapon,” Drax says to him post-beatdown, calm as anything and neck puncture all but a memory. He waves the arrow in Kraglin’s face without malice. “Why do you embarrass yourself so?”

The discordance makes Kraglin twitch more than he already is, but Drax doesn’t seem to notice as he slides down beside him, sitting where Kraglin’s blood is coagulating on the floor.

Kraglin manages a shrug. “Gotta start somewhere. Won’t get no better unless I practice.”

“You are not fit for it. You do not have a warrior’s prowess.”

“That don’t much matter. Cap’n...is dead, and I didn’t get t’do right by him. Didn’t even get to say g’bye or tell him...any else of it,” he finishes softly, tonguing at the tangy iron of his own blood and a few newly-loose teeth.

“What does any of that have to do with using the arrow?”

Kraglin tenses at his bluntness. “I suppose...I’m doing this for me. I want — I want to _remember_ him, because no matter what I…”

Veneration. Love. Fucking _sentiment_. None of it was easy to say when Yondu was alive. In death, Kraglin has no one to corral the soft impulses that coil inside him and smother his better instincts of self-preservation.

Among his new crewmates, his heart is cracked free.

“I’d like to keep a part of him with me,” he says, voice steady. The fin cradling his head oscillates with soft light, casting the wall in red resplendence. Kraglin basks under its glow and the growingly familiar contentment that comes with _sensing_ the arrow nearby. “Flyin’ the yaka lets me do that. Makes his passin’...hurt less.”

Drax extends his legs and stares at them pensively. Taps the dual blades at his boots using the arrow he still holds. “Hovat. Kamaria. I have felled many a foe with these two knives. When I wield them, it is like carrying my wife and daughter with me into battle.”

“They protect you.”

“And keep me strong,” Drax agrees, brows slowly furrowing. He passes back the arrow, which Kraglin accepts with quiet placidity. “So by utilizing Yondu’s arrow, you mean to honor him. In spite of your complete ineptitude,” Drax works out, before nodding to himself. “That is a worthy endeavor. So I will assist you in this, until your efforts are no longer pathetic.”

With that, Drax rises to his feet and extracts his dual knives. He holds them aloft as he whirls around into a crouched fighting stance. And waits expectantly.

“What?” Kraglin balks, spitting out a tooth. “Now?”

Eager, booming laughter reverberates from the bliges to the rafters. “The best improvements are made in combat, man of the Ravagers. We will spar until our bodies collapse from satiation, or until it is lunchtime: whichever occurs first. Then we will continue until even your captain would be proud of your skill. Now, stand and face me!”

It takes a few stretched seconds — and muttered profanities — but Kraglin stands, ignoring how it makes his muscles cramp and bones creak with the effort. He holds the yaka arrow between his fingers, and feels the pull of its potential like a weathered hand closing steadily over his own.

_Cap’n’s arrow. My arrow._

_Ours._

And whistles around a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
